Hark to Arrow!

The scent is lost, and all is quiet. Basset hounds snuffle to the left and right, but one strives out forward. She strikes the rabbit’s scent, lifts her little white head, and speaks. The huntsman, anxious for the rest of the pack to join this little lass, cries out “Hark to Arrow!” A little girl overhears this from a field away. She smiles to herself, for that is her basset, the one that sleeps in her house at night and looks lovingly into her eyes. For years to come, those three words, heard from afar, are the essence of pride.